Rewrite The Stars
by MrBenzedrine
Summary: Based on the movie, "The Greatest Showman." 1800's Magical AU. The stars are already written, and prejudices separate Draco and Hermione, despite their growing fondness for one another. Can they fight the odds? Full summary inside.
1. A Million Dreams

**I'm not sure where to begin. This idea came to me after watching "The Greatest Showman", and it's grown into something spectacular. This will follow more or less the entire movie, along with extra scenes, because this is being told from a Dramione POV for the most part. YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THE MOVIE TO ENJOY THIS FIC. I've added a magical twist to it! (And there WILL be variations, so _just because you've seen the movie doesn't mean you know the whole story_!) I wouldn't have been able to do this without the support of LightofEvolution and LondonsLegend. These ladies are my rock, my foundation. Without them, I would be nothing. They deserve all of the alpha and beta credits through this fic.**

 **I hope this story touches your heart. Too many times, we're quick to judge others without knowing them. I hope you walk away at the end of this story with a brighter outlook on life. I hope you smile a little more.**

 ** _See you on the other side._**  
 ** _~A._**

* * *

 **Rewrite The Stars  
By MrBenzedrine  
Rating: M for language, lemons, and topics of racism and hate speech  
Summary: _1800's Magical AU. The wizarding world is intolerant of anyone different, but George Weasley has a plan to change all of that: he wants to feature the oddities of society, including 'fantastic beasts and magical plebeians alike'. He somehow convinces Hermione Granger, a 'mudblood' by status, to join his show to prove to everyone that muggle borns aren't to be taken lightly. When he hires on pureblood Draco Malfoy as his business partner, Hermione has her doubts about his intentions. The stars will be rewritten in this Dramione parody of 'The Greatest Showman.'_**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own The Greatest Showman, and I will not make a profit from this story.**

* * *

 **Chapter One: A Million Dreams**

* * *

In a fire pit, everyone is equal. Fire has no favoritism just as it has no prejudices. In a way, it's pure. Pure like the blood coursing through Draco Malfoy's veins that fateful night. The smoke in his lungs, the burns on his hands - none of it registered. All he could think about was keeping his friends alive.

"Come on, Potter. Keep up."

He shifted the weight of Harry Potter on his shoulders, eyes tearing up against the heat of the flames around them. The groan of a beam could be heard somewhere above their heads, threatening to break at any moment.

"Luna…"

"She made it out," he assured the other man, though doubt trembled in his heart. Draco could have sworn he saw her make it, but maybe that was the smoke messing with his eyes. "Come on. Push through it." He referred to the blood pouring from Potter's ear, no doubt throwing off the man's equilibrium.

Instinct told Draco to draw his wand and fan the flames; logic told him it was no use. Fiendfyre didn't play to nature's rules. It was as unforgiving as the cold hearts who had cast the spell in the first place.

The next moments were a blur. He didn't realize they were out until cold air whipped them both in the face like whiplash, filling their lungs and stinging their burns. Draco's vision blurred as they trudged forward, nearly stumbling their way until they both toppled over in front of a familiar group of faces.

"Shit." Someone pulled Draco up to a sitting position, slapping him lightly in the face. "Malfoy - Draco, stay with me, mate." A pair of eyes he hadn't seen in months fell into focus. "Is everyone out? Everyone alright?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but the voice that spoke was scratchy and foreign. "Like you care." He shoved George Weasley hard in the chest - well, as hard as he could muster. He was lightheaded and drained of nearly all his energy. It still didn't stop him from scouring the crowd in search of a single face.

"Hermione…" He sprang to his feet, nearly pushing George onto his back in the process. "Has anyone seen Hermione?"

His feet took over, trudging into the crowd, shoving onlookers to the side while frantically searching for a hint of those curly tresses. No, she had to be here. She just had to.

"Weasley!" He caught sight of Ron Weasley being treated for his burned arm. "Weasley, where's Hermione?"

"What?" Ron's already pale face drained of all color. "Sh-She's not with you?"

"Malfoy!" A soft hand brushed his shoulder. It was Luna Lovegood, tears streaming down her sooted cheeks. "I-I saw Hermione running back for the hippogriff!"

"She what?"

All spectators watched in horror as the fiendfyre flared, bursting the windows from the second story.

There was no hesitation in what Draco did next. Without thinking, he jerked off his singed blazer and charged toward the building faster than his friends could stop him.

"No! Malfoy!"

But Draco wouldn't listen to George Weasley's protests. He leapt through the ring of fire that was the entrance to the building with little thought except to _find her_. No spell would quench the fiendfyre's thirst to destroy, but he couldn't let her down. Not now. Not again.

He'd rather die.

* * *

 **Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for (woah)**  
 **Been searching in the dark, your sweat soaking through the floor (woah)**  
 **And buried in your bones there's an ache that you can't ignore**  
 **Taking your breath, stealing your mind**  
 **And all that was real is left behind**

 **Don't fight it, it's coming for you, running at ya**  
 **It's only this moment, don't care what comes after**  
 **Your fever dream, can't you see it getting closer**  
 **Just surrender 'cause you feel the feeling taking over**  
 **It's fire, it's freedom, it's flooding open**  
 **It's a preacher in the pulpit and you'll find devotion**  
 **There's something breaking at the brick of every wall it's holding**  
 **All that you know, so tell me do you wanna go?**

 **"The Greatest Show" -The Greatest Showman Soundtrack**

* * *

 **Some time ago...**

"I'll admit, Miss Granger, your resume looks promising." Horace Slughorn peered over the rim of his glasses at the woman seated across from him, trailing his gaze atop the stray curls falling around her face from her mop of hazelnut hair. She was pretty, yes. Young, too. And gifted, according to her former professors. But even Horace, master of failure at reading social cues, could sense her uneasiness. "I see you were born here in England, but you've traveled and graduated top of your class at Ilvermorny?"

"That's right." She nodded firmly, her eyes never quite meeting his.

"So, what brings you back to England?"

"My father is ill…" As if afraid it wasn't enough information, she added hastily, "My mother is accomplished, but he needs around the clock care, and-"

"And you're trying to help make ends meet, is that right?"

Another nod.

"Graduated with honors. Able to perform a patronus - my, my. How impressive, and especially at your age. -Er, how old are you again, dear?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"Nineteen. Yes. I suppose if I did the math," he mused, glancing down at her date of birth. "And what is it your mother does?"

A pause. Horace noticed the way her hands began wrung together. Hermione Granger, to her credit, kept a gentle voice as she replied, albeit crisply, "I'm not sure what my mother's profession has to do with my own, Mister Slughorn. _I've_ applied for the job, and if you'll notice, I'm more than qualified-"

" _Overqualified_ is the word you're looking for, I believe," Horace corrected her, setting her resume parchment neatly on top of his table and pointing to a specific line on the page. "However, it seems you've left your blood status blank."

He didn't receive an answer instantly; Horace watched the gears in the young witch's head grind and groan, thinking up a valid excuse. Finally, she muttered out, "My mother is a dentist, sir. Both of my parents."

"I see." Horace let the room fall into an uncomfortable silence, pondering how best to approach his next request. This was always such a delicate matter, but it needed to be done. "And...could you shift your hair to the side, Miss Granger?"

He watched her hesitation, but she still presented her neck, nonetheless. And there was…

Nothing. Not even a trace of a mark.

"Please-" she began, but Horace cut her off with a quick wave of the hand.

"I'm sorry, you've wasted your time. As the sign in the window clearly states, blood status _must_ be half blood or higher." Horace began to gather his things, though to what end he didn't know; this was his office, after all. Then again, anything would be better than a stuffy room filled with muggleborn air.

"But you said it yourself! I'm more than qualified!" The girl slammed her hand down on his desk, startling the older man. " _Overqualified_ \- your word!"

"Overqualified for a half-blood, yes. But - oh, my dear," Horace grimaced, guilt flooding his heart. "It isn't that _I_ despise you. Quite the opposite, really. I have a second cousin who was a remarkable muggleborn witch."

"Then hire me," she challenged.

"And risk my entire potions business? I think not." Stuffing his paperwork into his briefcase, Horace made to move around the desk and dash to the door, but the shorter witch practically leapt out of her chair and blocked his path. A wild, determined look shrouded her eyes.

"Sir, you don't understand. If I can't find a job to help my family, my father will surely _die_."

"And if I hire you, I might as well be dead myself," Horace countered gravely, pushing the girl not-so-lightly to the side. She landed with a thunk against the edge of his desk, wincing. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. Truly, deeply, I am. But I must…" He cleared his throat. "I must ask you to leave my office at once."

"But-"

" _Now_. Before I hale an Auror."

She left nearly the same way she came in - shaking, hair flying this way and that - but this time, when she strode across the floor to the door, she left a blaze of fiery footprints that singed the wooden floorboards on the way out. Right before she slammed the door shut, she said, barely above a whisper, "Mark my words, Mister Slughorn. You will regret this day."

* * *

As Hermione stepped out onto the streets of Diagon Alley, she sighed, staring down at her boots, which were now a charred shade of black instead of their usual brown. This would be the third pair of shoes she'd ruined and her fifth job decline this week. There was a snort to her left, and she turned on the spot, brandishing her wand and pointing it in the throat of a wide-eyed redhead.

"Oi, Hermione!" the man squeaked. "S'just me!"

Amused, she stared into the blue eyes of her best friend and counterpart, Ron Weasley. "I know. But perhaps this will teach you not to sneak up on unassuming ladies in the middle of the day?" With a smirk, she removed her wand and giggled.

"One problem with that," Ron countered crossly, rubbing his throat. "You're not a lady - you're a beast with inhuman reflexes."

"And don't you forget it." Hermione beamed.

"You're in awfully good spirits for someone who just got denied a job."

"How did you know I was denied?"

Ron motioned to her shoes, and a flood of heat rushed up Hermione's neck, settling into her cheeks. She tucked a lock of curls behind each ear before plopping down on the steps of _Slughorn's Potions and Miracles_ , already setting to work on unlacing her boots. "Ginny will be cross with me. These were hers."

"You really ought to watch that temper of yours." Ron took a seat beside her to keep her company as she worked.

"You're one to talk, Ronald. Or need I remind you of the squabble you had last week inside The Leaky Cauldron?" Satisfied with the deepening shade of red to Ron's ears, Hermione yanked off the boot and tossed it down the steps. As she began to strip the laces off her other one, she added, "That absolute sod…"

"Yeah, the bartender had no right to throw me out."

"What? No. Not the bartender. Slughorn." She motioned back to the shop behind them. "And the bartender had every right. You were acting like a buffoon. Even if that Goyle did call you a..." The word fell short on her lips.

"Which is why I had every right to do what I did."

"Really? Going fisticuffs with a 20 stone dunderhead sounds intelligent to you, does it?"

"It wasn't like I could challenge him to a duel, Hermione."

"True…"

"Anyway, none of this matters, because George is taking us to lunch."

Hermione's head popped up at that. "George? Your brother, George?"

"Do we know another George?"

Skeptically, she quirked an eyebrow. "What's he want this time?"

"Oh, good. You're suspicious too."

"Of course, I'm suspicious. I'd have to be daft not to be. He's always got a trick up his sleeve - quite literally, at times. Especially since he began apprenticing under that fraud of a salesman."

"Lockhart," they said in unison.

"Ehhh…." Ron made a grimace, sparking Hermione's interest. "That's actually gone under."

"Since when?" she gasped.

"Since George started showing him up. He got sacked a few weeks ago."

 _When it rains, it pours_ , thought Hermione disheartenedly. "How is he going to take us out to lunch, then?"

"Dunno. But honestly, I'm so hungry, I couldn't care less as to the _how_ , as long as it happens." Ron rubbed his stomach theatrically.

With the final boot off, Hermione extended her stocking-covered feet and gave a long stretch. She bathed in the sun beams peeking through the clouds above, trying to remain optimistic. No, she didn't land this job. But she had two more interviews this week. Surely something would stick. She _needed_ it to. It was true - her father was dying, and no amount of magic could stop it. No matter how hard she tried to find a cure, there simply was none to the effects of a failing heart.

But she could keep him comfortable, and she could protect her mother from having to dip into her pension - _if_ she could find a suitable job to help cover the expenses. "It's so disheartening," she whispered, more to herself than to Ron, who she knew had it just as bad as she did, if not worse. "Well, no use in crying over a spilled cauldron, right?"

"That's what Mum always says - but you know what no one ever talks about? What's actually spilled! I dunno about you, but if I had a cauldron full of felix felicis and it tipped, I'd be bawling my eyes out. - Er, Hermione? No offence, but you're not really going to walk barefoot, are you?"

"Don't be silly." With a simple spell and her wand pointed at her toes, Hermione pushed herself up to stand, but her feet never touched the surface of the stone beneath her. She hovered just above, beaming proudly at her spellwork. "Now, hand me those shoes. I'll work on them on the way."

As they walked, the two of them fell into a comfortable cadence of musical hums and not much else. They'd known each other since they were children; it was like the two of them shared a single heartbeat - even after she'd moved to America. The change had been hard, and saying goodbye doubly so, but life had been easier in the States. And she was about to be reminded why that was.

They strolled quietly down the street, past the street vendors and beggars on the corner. Hermione veered around a group of boys staring in the window of the Quidditch store, where they were unravelling their newest creation: The Silver Arrow. It was then that she tossed Ginny's boots into a nearby bin - there would be no salvaging them, unfortunately.

"Blimey," Ron gasped, stopping behind the gaggle of boys, over a head taller than them. "Hermione, get a look at this."

"It's a broomstick."

"Not just any broomstick," he countered, shaking his head. "That's the new Arrow. It's Helluva lot faster than the Oakshaft 79, but the creator only works on one at a time. They're super rare."

Hermione was about to pretend to be mildly interested when one of the boys in front of them turned around, possibly to talk broomsticks with Ron. That was, until he noticed the raised, puckered skin along the pulsepoint under his jaw peeking underneath his collar. It had been a beautiful mark, once. Just as beautiful as the soul it had belonged to.

But to the wizarding world of Britain, none of that mattered.

"Huh. What's an ickle _squibby_ like you gonna do with a broomstick?" The boy smirked when his words caught the attention of his friends, who all turned to see the spectacle of Ron's scarred throat.

"Did you just say squib?" another boy asked, standing on his tiptoes to get a closer look at the towering form of Ron. "I've never seen one up close! Mum says they carry diseases!"

All of the color drained from Ron's face as blood rushed to his ears. For a man standing at nearly two meters tall, he looked as if he was that small boy standing on his front porch the morning he found out he would never harness magic.

"I...I-er-"

"That's right, boys." Hermione wrapped an arm around Ron's wiry bicep, tugging him forward. "He's rabid, and if you continue to tease him, he might bite you!"

"Hermione-" Ron laughed sheepishly, admiring the way the boy that had been crowding him suddenly jerked back in fear. Still, her words did nothing to deter the first lad, who gave a loud snort and stood his ground.

"Like I'd believe anything that a _mudblood_ has to say." He tilted his head to expose the intricate design of the burning blue North Star, branded just below his jawline in the same spot as Ron's scar. Then, he took a step forward, right into Hermione's personal space. "My mum told me about _your_ kind. You're even worse than _ickle squibby_ over there."

"If you're referring to that overblown _myth_ -"

"You've heard the story, right fellas?" The boy called over his shoulder smugly, reciting the tale from memory. Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes in exasperation. "Your mums have told you, right? In the beginning, magic was for everyone. But there were a few who committed unforgivable sins - misused magic. And when their children's time came to be marked, the magic repelled them. It wanted nothing to do with the traitors!" He spat on the ground at Hermione's stockings. "And so the muggles were spawned. Mudbloods are just magic thieves!"

"That is _not_ true!" Hermione found herself shouting, her prideful nature taking over her logical thinking. "That's an old wives tale your mothers tell you to scare you! Your markings haven't been here since the beginning of time. If you actually did any research, you'd know that! How on earth could you actually believe-"

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. "Now, gents. That's no way to speak to a lady. Especially one with a friend willing to give away sweets to brats who skedaddle on their merry way elsewhere." Someone pulled Hermione backwards, stepped in front of her, and rummaged through his pockets until he brought forth a selection of various-colored candy canes. He wore robes the color of crimson with a matching top hat, making him look more like a muggle's version of a magician than an actual wizard. But Hermione would recognize that blaze of red hair anywhere.

"I know you," said the first boy, narrowing his eyes but still not too prideful to take a candy. "You're that Weasley."

" _That_ Weasley? My, but that _is_ flattering. Especially since there are so many of us." The man straightened his shoulders and tugged on the edges of his blazer, grinning ear-to-ear. "George Weasley, my good fellow. Best remember the name - you're going to be hearing a lot of it around town in the future."

The boy eyed George's tattoo that so nearly matched his own, an internal debate swimming around in his head. "Yeah...whatever." Deciding against his impulse, he shrugged, already popping the end of the candy cane in his mouth and shooting both Hermione and Ron a sneerful expression. "S'your choice to entertain the freaks."

"An excellent choice of words, I would say," George muttered to himself, turning around and sending Hermione a grin that perplexed her to no end. "'Allo, Hermione. Been a while."

Before Hermione could get a word of introduction in, Ron interjected, "I thought we were meeting you for lunch. Don't tell me you've changed your mind."

"We're not freaks," Hermione stated quietly, holding her head high. It needed to be said aloud. It needed to be _solidified_.

"No. Indeed, you're not. But as for the entertainment…" George's smile widened, piquing her interest.

"Food! Why aren't we talking about food?" Ron groaned.

" _Relax_ , baby brother. Ol' Georgie-boy has that all sorted away. - Come on, follow me. There's plenty of food where we're going." He gestured forward with his arm. "Onward!"

As they followed George down the busy street, Hermione noted, "You're acting quite chipper for someone who just recently lost his only source of income."

"Am I? I'd say I'm acting the appropriate amount of chipper - especially for someone who has gained new ventures through the loss of a drab, incomplete experience that was my previous place of employment."

"But Angelina? Surely she isn't thrilled." Angelina, as they all knew, was George's wife and mother of their two children.

"Thrilled? I dare say not. But she's coming around to the idea, so that's something."

"I'm lost," said Ron.

"Not to worry. Stick with me, and you'll be found in no time." George tilted his head toward Hermione, or more so to her lack of shoes. She was still levitating just barely above the bricks beneath her. "Quite a handy - or should I say footsie - trick you have there."

"Levitation charms are quite common, George," she stated.

"Yes, yes. But the skill to hover _just above_ the stone - that takes talent above the skills of even most elite wizards and witches alike."

"It's not that impressive," Hermione replied, letting her curls fall over her face to hide the forming blush on her cheeks. It was nice having someone compliment her spellwork, as it was so rare for anyone to give her the time of day. In America, it hadn't been this way. The only thing that mattered was if you could or couldn't perform magic. But here, back home, not all magic was viewed the same - even if it most certainly was. It all came down to the elitist mark given to those select few at birth. The world was changing, but the magical society was still bleeding their old ways.

And Hermione Granger, muggleborn and first witch in her family, was stuck smack dab in the middle of it all. Whether she wanted to be or not.

It just didn't seem fair - not the lingering stares or the whispers as she passed down the street. Most muggleborns didn't dare walk side by side with a marked pureblood, even if his reputation for being strange and a blood traitor preceded him. Still, that one, blazing blue star magically inked in his skin meant opportunity. It meant _acceptance_. From the moment that mark touched his skin in infancy, he was afforded a chance that not even half bloods could dream of.

It turned Hermione's stomach inside out.

"Right, here we are." George stopped just short of the sidewalk edging, gesturing to the building of 93 Diagon Alley across the street. It was a run down establishment with boarded up windows and the paint peeling off of the sills.

"It's just a building with a sold sign on it," Ron huffed. "There's no food here it all!"

"But not just _any_ building, baby brother. _My_ building."

Ron's jaw dropped comically. "What? You're lying!"

"I'd never lie about something as important as this. A little white lie here and there? Sure. But this-" George waved his hands around in a prideful way, "-is truth at its core."

Hermione pursed her lips, pondering. "George."

"Yes?"

"There is no way you could have afforded this on Lockhart's salary."

"You're absolutely correct, Hermione. But we still have Lockhart to thank, even if he doesn't exactly know it."

"Do we even wanna know?" Ron groaned as George locked arms with both and dragged them across the street.

"Let's just say there was a deed to a burned down villa in Glasgow that was gathering dust which made excellent collateral-"

"Nope." Hermione pressed her hands over her ears. "I'm not listening to this."

"Then don't. But do open your eyes, alright? You won't want to miss it." George stopped them just short of the door and produced a long, silver key from his pockets. "Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for."

"What? Food?" asked Ron.

A sense of thrill climbed up Hermione's spine, despite her common sense, as she watched George turn the key in the lock and listened to the gears inside turn. Something in the way his eyes twinkled sparked excitement within her. He always did have a knack for seeing the possible in the impossible...just what could he be up to this time?

When the last cog clicked into place, George twisted the doorknob, but not before turning to the others, grinning like a madman. "Leave your baggage at the door, yeah? You dreams begin here."

He shouldered the door open, and for a split moment, Hermione could feel the magic inside pulse like a heartbeat against her skin. Goosebumps traveled up her arms as she forgot how to breathe. She stepped inside…

Upon further inspection, she couldn't pinpoint what had given her that exuberant feeling in the first place. It was an empty building with an extension charm built into it. And when she said empty, she meant _empty_. Not a shred of furniture or product. The only light to be found spilling in from the windows, highlighting a raised ring in the center of the floor.

* * *

 ***(*)* Three weeks ago *(*)***

* * *

"George...what is this?"

"This is the future. Our future." George Weasley plastered on the largest smile he could muster, despite the butterflies threatening to burst from his stomach. He reached for his wife's hand and gave it a light squeeze. At least the children looked amused, even if there wasn't much to the building aside from some taxidermied beasts and charmed statues. "Angelina, I know how this looks."

"Do you?" she asked, the faintest hint of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth. "Good. I'd be worried if you didn't."

"It just needs a little work."

"What's that?" Fred, their eldest child, asked as he stared up at the feathered creature above him. It was the size of a carriage with six pairs of wings and a head similar to a hippogriff. Life had left the creature ages ago, but the way it had been preserved still managed to give it a sparkle in the eyes, as if it might spring back alive at any moment.

George looked down at the child named after his late brother, sensing the same curiosity he himself had as a young boy. He crouched beside the lad and patted his head. "That, Freddy, is a _Thunderbird_."

"Whoa." Fred stared wondrously up at the beast. "I've only seen them in books!"

"That's because they're native to North America," said Roxanne, George's youngest (brightest) child. "You wouldn't see one around here unless someone stole it."

"Or purchased it illegally," George commented.

"Like I said, Daddy. Stole."

 _Far too bright for her own good, that one_ , he thought to himself. "Well, it's not alive, so I think we'll be okay having it here, don't you think?"

While Roxanne gave him a skeptical look, Angelina approached, reaching out to stroke down the Thunderbird's downy mane. "This is marvelous, George. Really…"

"But?"

"But it's been open to the public since we were children. And how many times did it take for it to become boring?"

"Boring?" George perked up, shuffling his way back to stand. "Fred and I used to come here all the time!"

"I've never been here," said Fred flatly.

"No, not _you_ , Fred. Your uncle." George looked around at the fantastic beasts forever preserved in their glory days. "This is hardly boring at all!"

Fred tugged on his father's robes. "I think you have too many dead things, Daddy. Maybe that's why mommy finds it boring."

"He's right," agreed Roxanne as-a-matter-of-factly. "You need something...alive." George watched the way his daughter's eyes danced in delight.

"Is that so, little lady?"

She nodded earnestly. "Something...sensational."

Pride struck George in the heart like an arrow. "That's a big word."

"It's your word. - You need something that isn't stuffed." Without hesitation, Roxanne marched right up to the Thunderbird and poked it in its belly.

"Like a unicorn!" suggested Fred.

Roxanne laughed. "Yeah! Or a thestral!"

"Thestrals aren't real."

"Yes they are! Uncle Ron says so! You just have to be special to see them!"

"I'm special!" Fred argued. "And I've never seen one."

"No, I'm talking _really_ special. Like Uncle Ron!"

George and Angelina exchanged careful glances. Neither one of them had the heart to tell their kids the reason their Uncle Ron could see thestrals had little to do with being a squib and everything to do with witnessing their Uncle Fred's death. But Ron _was_ special in other ways...and that got the wheels in George's head turning. _Yes...Ron, the squib. A rare beast, indeed. And more integrity than half of the wizarding community_. But they never gave him a chance, always looked down on him.

' _You need something alive. Something sensational._ '

* * *

"You want to _what_?" squeaked Ron, glaring daggers at his brother. "Parade me around like some show pony? The freak without magic?"

"Parade, yes," said George. "But a freak you are _not_. You're rare. Sensational. The both of you are."

When his eyes fell on Hermione, her heart skipped a beat. She had a bad feeling she knew where this was going. "No. No, no, no."

"Yes!" George encouraged. "Yes, yes, yes! It only makes sense-" He blocked her before she could retreat. "Listen, Hermione. You're the brightest witch your age. I know it. Ron knows it. But the world can't see it. Can't look past the blood coursing through your veins. Not yet - but they will." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and spun her around to the center of the ring. "Imagine being looked at not in disdain, but in appreciation. Imagine all eyes on you."

"I'd rather not." Just the thought of it was enough to make Hermione nauseated. "I'm not a beast to be displayed in a zoo."

George attempted a different approach. "The wizarding world will never accept you as you are. Not like this. Not with a chip on your shoulder and anger in your heart. - You and Ron both need jobs. You _need_ them. I can pay you well. Enough to help you with your father _and_ put food in your stomach. And in return, you can show those pureblood snobs what a muggleborn witch is really made of."

"You're not really going to buy into this, are you?" Ron asked her, crossing his arms. "He just wants us as pets that can perform for him so he can make a quick galleon."

"That hurts, Ron." George frowned. "I'm offering you this opportunity because I see great potential in what we'd be selling."

"And what would we be selling?" Hermione whispered.

"Hope," replied George seriously. "For future generations of the spectacular, bizarre, and unique."

"Yeah? And how would I fit into any of that?" Ron scuffed his boot along the floor. "I'm a squib remember. There's not an ounce of magic in me." Subconsciously, he rubbed over the scar along his throat - a symbol of the status ripped from him.

"Not in you - but in her." George nudged his head in Hermione's direction. "She's got more magic in her little pinky than most have in their entire body. And she's got the discipline to use it correctly. Together, I think you two could come up with a routine that would not only wow the crowd, but blow them, and their wallets, away. And we'd find others just like you-"

"Freaks?"

"Spectaculars."

Hermione stared up at the skylight above them, feeling the building's magic hum against her once again.

She needed the money; it was true. A part of her wondered if she would risk her integrity by jumping into business with George Weasley - it wasn't like he had an excellent track record for his schemes.

But even still...no one had ever looked at her the way the Weasleys did. As if she was worth something.

"Hope?" she asked, inhaling the scent of dust and magic. "Hope is more than we've ever been offered. _Count me in._ "

* * *

 **Thank you for reading chapter one! I've already started on chapter two, which will deal with Draco's side of society. (If you haven't guessed, this will be a slow burn Dramione, but I promise it will be worth the adventure!)**

 **Please leave a review if you have a moment? It helps the muse be slightly less terrifying. (My muse might be a cloaked figure standing in the corner of the room disapproving of everything I do.) XD I'd like to try to reply back to all reviews next chapter if I can!**

 **With love,**  
 **A.**


	2. Stella Polaris

**What the what!? I had no idea the turn out for this fic was going to be so epic from the beginning. Y'all, I've been reading your reviews and watching the 'follow' numbers go up, and I'm just in shock. Thank you so much to every one of you. And OF COURSE, this would not be possible without LondonsLegend and LightofEvolution for sticking with me, alpha and beta'ing me, and encouraging me through this second chapter. LoE has a big thank you for working out my Latin, and LL for stopping me from using the word 'spindly' when it most certainly wasn't needed. ;)  
**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Stella Polaris**

* * *

"Come on, Flint! Give 'im a good show!"

Blaise Zabini cheered from the bottom of the platform, waving his bowler hat this way and that. From the lengthy stage in an otherwise empty ballroom, two opponents met head on, wands clenched in their fists and jaws tight with tension. Sweat dripped down their foreheads - soaked into their duelling robes, but neither of them dared take even a second to wipe their brows. They were too fixated - one small slip up, and it would be over. The man called Flint, Marcus Flint to be precise, stalked the catwalk's width like a provoked beast. His crooked teeth gnashed in the gnarly smile he shot his rival, but the other man, the one with 'Potter' sewed into the back of his robes, showed no signs of intimidation.

"You have this, Harry," encouraged an elderly wizard with a silver beard and half-moon specs, seemingly calm in the stands with his hands folded across his lap. "Concentrate."

From the opposite side of the stage, next to Zabini, sat a rather bored wizard with snowy blond hair and eyes the color of pewter. He was a handsome man - all angular features and sharp lines. His was a life of expensive means, right down to the set of tailored dress robes he wore. His hair, slicked back and spelled to stay that way, set him apart from the crowd, amongst other things: he was a Malfoy, he was wealthy, and he wore the coveted cobalt North Star along his neck like everyone else within his circle. But to say Draco Malfoy was happy would be to tell a complicated lie that not even he could talk his way out of.

"Don't you screw this up for me, Flint," Blaise hissed under his breath loud enough for the duelist to hear. "I've got a small fortune resting on your skill set today."

Between pants, Marcus shot back, eyes never leaving Potter, "What would you have me do? He's quick."

Blaise turned toward Draco, as if he might offer some advice, but the unamused heir pretended to be far more interested in his fingernails than the match. Truth be told, he _was_ interested, but only because he hadn't seen anyone keep up with Flint since the beginning of the season. Even though this was just a preliminary practice round so both could assess each other (as it made the duels much more interesting that way), Flint was obviously worked down to the bone. His exhausted demeanor wasn't something Draco had seen since his duel with Viktor Krum two years ago. And that had been an _actual duel._

"I don't care what you do. Play dirty if you have to. Just don't lose this." Blaise threw down his bowler hat like the action would solidify his words. Partially rolling his eyes, Flint assessed his enemy across the platform before a wicked grin danced across his lips. Draco recognized that expression - no matter how talented Potter was, Flint would win. He'd seen it too many times.

 _Damn,_ he thought. _I'd thought maybe this would be the one…_

The match resumed, and Potter sent a fireball hurdling in Flint's direction. Flint dodged it with a deflecting spell before bombarding Potter in electrical jolts. Each time Potter diverted one, Flint forced him slowly backward by the sheer force of each spell. Draco saw it - the fear trickling into Potter's eyes. He noticed something else as well - determination.

Leaning up in interest, Draco tried to feign disinterest, reaching for Blaise's hat, but really he watched the match with heightened curiosity.

Spell. Defect. Spell. Defect.

"That's it, Flint!" Blaise catcalled. "Show that half blood what you're made of!"

With new vigor, Marcus Flint flourished his wand, shouting, " _Serpensortia!_ " From the tip of his wand, a viper sprung forth, landing on the platform mere meters from Potter's feet with a loud _hissss_.

Both men froze. Potter stared down at the beast, a mild look of shock the only recognizable expression written on his face. The snake hissed louder, slithering and snapping its jaws. Potter flinched and tripped over his robes, tumbling backwards and landing hard on his arse.

"Not so bold now, are you, Potter?" Flint chided smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaving him vulnerable. It would have been considered a rookie move if Flint wasn't such a force to be reckoned with.

"Harry!" The old man on the other side of the platform boomed out, " _Do it_."

Something clicked behind Potter's eyes, which were fixated on the snake. He looked to be struggling internally with something, but after the snake snapped at him once more, he sat upright and spoke in an unfamiliar voice, " _(Stop)_."

The entire room stilled, except for Draco, who leaned even closer to the stage in awe. Marcus Flint looked as if he could shit himself at any moment, and Blaise, despite his dark complexion, paled exponentially.

The snake stilled, staring at Potter with a now calm demeanor.

" _(He's using you. I'm not your enemy)_ ," the man continued in the same low tone. He glanced up at Flint, and the snake turned its body, following Potter's gaze.

"Holy hippogriff shit," Blaise whispered from his spot below the stage. "He's a-"

"Parseltongue!" Flint exclaimed, jutting out his wand arm and setting his stance. "I always knew you were weird, Potter, but this - this takes the bloody cake." He eyed the snake cautiously, but it was obvious the surprising news got directly under his skin. He was trying to goad his opponent, which meant (Draco surmised) that Flint was running out of ideas. "Maybe that's why your parents are dead - they couldn't bear the thought of raising a _freak_ like you."

Harry Potter pushed himself up to stand, staying one step behind the snake. The look on his face was one of sheer anger. "Take it _back. (Now!)"_ The snake curled and slithered across the stage, mimicking Potter's stomp of anger toward Flint.

"Oi, oi!" shouted Blaise.

Marcus looked petrified on the spot, even with his wand still tucked safely in his hand. "Fucking freak," he said again, practically spitting the words.

It was like a blur - the snake hissed and lurched its body at Flint, who in turn screamed like a small child and tumbled backward off of the platform completely.

If it hadn't been such a serious moment, Draco would have burst out into laughter.

With a smirk, Potter knelt next to the snake and stroked its head thoughtfully, speaking to it in that strange language only he and the snake understood. Blaise threw his hands up in the air; the match was won. Flint falling off of the platform ensured it. Potter's coach stroked his silver beard from the other side of the platform, nodding proudly.

"In all the seven hells…" Blaise turned to Draco and shook a finger at him. "I'm not paying you."

"A bet is a bet," Draco replied smoothly, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. He'd offered the wager on a whim - after all, it wasn't _his_ money to spent if he lost, as he was an heir and not a money maker himself. He'd never counted on Potter actually winning this practice round, but here he was. Perhaps he'd take the money to buy himself that Quidditch team…

Sharp clapping bounced off the walls and around their heads, causing everyone in attendance to turn toward the entrance. A tall figure in flowing robes and an obnoxious top hat strolled down the length of the auditorium, showly clapping all the way. He stopped just short of the stage, eyes fixed directly on Potter as if he was a rare breed of hippogriff. "Harry Potter. It's an honor to meet you." The man extended his freckled hand toward Potter.

"You can't be in here," Blaise immediately jeered, stepping between the two and knocking the stranger's hand to the side in the process. "Practice sessions are closed to the community."

"Indeed, they are," agreed the man, "but the last time I took a look upon myself, I was just one man and not an entire community." He didn't appear put off at Blaise's rudeness. His pleasantry extended to all in attendance, even though the feelings were not returned. "George Weasley, my good fellow." He jutted his arm out again, and this time, Potter shook it, albeit reluctantly.

"Er...thanks."

"Ah, and you must be the great retired professor turned trainer," Weasley said, releasing Potter's hand and waving fondly across the platform. The fact that a snake lingered on the stage didn't faze him once.

"You've heard of me?" the old man asked.

"I'd have to be living under a rock to not 'ave heard of the great Albus Dumbledore. It truly is an honor." When Weasley removed his top hat to salute him, Draco was nearly blinded by the reflectively red hair sprouting out the top of his head. The angles of his face looked oddly familiar, but Draco couldn't place where he'd seen that face before… "Harry - d'you mind if I call you Harry?"

"Er...sure?" The inarticulate Potter pinched his eyebrows together.

"Harry, may I have a moment of your time? I promise to make it well worth your while."

Potter glanced back at his duelling coach, almost as if asking for permission. Dumbledore nodded once, and Potter hopped down off the stage, stopping for a moment to turn back and eye the snake. " _(Stay here),_ " he said to it, and the snake nodded - actually _nodded._ It stayed stark still on the platform, and Draco knew immediately no one would dare disturb it.

"Mister Weasley-"

"George. Call me George."

"Um, George...I don't really know what you want with me." The two began walking toward the door, Weasley draping an arm around Potter's shoulders as guidance.

Blaise looked utterly inconvenienced as he slumped his shoulders and grumbled, "I mean it, Malfoy. You're not getting a Sickle out of me."

"Talk's cheap, and apparently, so are you," Draco quipped, stretching to stand, his eyes never quite leaving Weasley and Potter. "I need a pipe break. Join me?"

"You know I don't touch tobacco."

Indeed, Draco did know. And that was the exact reaction he was hoping for. He pulled his tobacco pipe from a pocket inside of his robes and smirked, already trailing behind the two most interesting people of the afternoon. He didn't take the front exit; instead, he climbed the steps to the second floor and quietly stepped out onto the balcony. Apparating would have been easier, but Draco wasn't lazy, and it would have made too much noise anyway. He lit his pipe, already packed with smoking tobacco, with the tip of his wand and took a puff as he eavesdropped on the conversation below him. Just what did this Weasley want with Dumbledore's new prized token?

"-not really understanding what you mean, Mister Weasley."

"Now I've told you, Harry, it's George. And my offer is simple: I want to pay you to use your gifts for me in my show."

"Gifts, Sir? I-I mean George?" Potter corrected himself, agitation in his voice.

"What you did with that snake! Marvelous work, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh. That." Potter sounded crestfallen. "It's...not something a lot of people know about."

"Mm, yes, I imagine not," George agreed, and Draco could picture the nod of his annoying head. "But it's a spectacular gift."

"Gift? This isn't a gift. This is a _curse_. As if I'm not already gawked at enough for everything else. You know who I am, yeah? What happened to my parents?"

"I told you he wouldn't be on board, George," said a third voice, matter-of-fact and feminine. It piqued Draco's interest; he hadn't known there was a third party member to this conversation. Nosy as ever, he carefully approached the side of the platform and leaned over the edge. He spotted Weasley, Potter, and a shorter girl with curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. He couldn't tell much else about her, as her back was turned to him, but she held herself like a man more than a woman - all square shoulders and tight posture. "And it isn't a curse. It's a rare ability passed down through bloodline. Anyone who's studied a textbook would know parseltongue isn't something to be feared." She crossed her arms.

"Who's this?" asked Potter.

"This is my...associate."

"I'm the woman who's going to whack some sense into you if I have anything to do about it." She stepped right into Potter's personal space. " _We_ wouldn't look at you the way they did in there. You wouldn't be some piece of insured meat who fights for an empty cause and a quick Galleon. You wouldn't be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived and is now displayed and made to duel like some show pony."

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Weasley interjected with a nervous laugh. "I mean, you would be on display. But you wouldn't be under _their_ thumb. You'd work _with_ us, not _for_ us."

"Do you smell...smoke?" The girl twisted her head up and met Draco's stare. To his surprise, she wasn't some ugly, stingy bint like he'd imagined in his mind. She was actually...pretty. Dark eyes. Delicate features. A glare so strong it sent goosebumps up the back of his neck. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?"

Both of the men turned and followed her gaze.

Shit. He'd been caught.

"Excuse you? I'm simply enjoying myself a hearty smoke and some fresh air," he quipped back, puffing his pipe for show. "Hasn't anyone ever told _you_ it's rude to try to recruit someone else's employee right outside their door?"

"See what we mean?" The girl gestured up to Draco but speaking to Potter. "They don't see you as your own individual."

"Oh? You mean the way you just lumped me together with everyone inside this building?" he shot back.

"Alright, Hermione," Weasley said, reaching over and stilling the witch from drawing her wand. "That's enough. Don't make a scene. - My card." He pulled out a folded cardstock from his pocket and pushed it into Potter's hand. "Think on it. We're more than a place of employment, Harry. We're family. Auditions are at two on Saturday! Bring your snake friend." With a wink, he managed to convince the frizzy-haired brunette to follow him down the street, despite the venomous glare she shot back in Draco's direction.

If she hadn't been such a pushy, insufferable witch, Draco might have thought her cute. _Hermione_...what a mouthful.

He set his pipe on the railing and leaned over, calling down, "You aren't really considering them, are you Potter?"

"Why does it matter to you?" Potter squinted his eyes. Well, this wasn't how Draco pictured having a word in edgewise with Harry _freaking_ Potter, but there was no time like the present, right? It would make good parlor talk if he told the gents he'd rubbed elbows with the bloody _boy who lived_.

"Me? Oh, it doesn't matter to _me._ I'm just looking out for _you_ ," Draco replied, casually shrugging his shoulders while tapping his pipe along the metal guardrail. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."

Potter turned his head, following the trail of Weasley and that Hermione. He turned back around, and to Draco's surprise, he wore a look of pure disgust. "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, _thanks_." He stomped inside and slammed the door shut quickly after that, leaving a surprised, embarrassed, and agitated Draco in his wake.

* * *

That night, when Draco arrived home, he was met with a house elf waiting for him with a change of dress robes and the instructions to meet in the ballroom. His parents, the true owners of the lavish manor he resided in, had agreed to host the Marking of his mate Theo's newborn daughter, Eldra. It was quite the scandal; after all, Theo and Astoria had become pregnant out of wedlock quickly upon Astoria graduating Hogwarts, forcing the Notts and the Greengrasses to throw together a quick (but tasteful) wedding. Thankfully, none of the papers had gotten wind of the truth, but those within their innermost circle knew. And of course, Draco knew; he'd been practically betrothed to Astoria since they were toddlers.

He knew his parents only offered to host this Marking to prove there was no ill-blood between the Notts and the Malfoys, even though there bloody well was. Not between Draco and Theo, of course. Astoria was pretty and intelligent, but she made the perfect match for Theo in nearly every way. He was happy to see them together, even though it was strange to know they were parents at the young age of nineteen and seventeen. Hardly adults, and yet they had all of the burdens of parenthood.

Draco's only obligation was to his bottle of scotch tucked away in his nightstand, begging for his attention later tonight when he would crawl into bed. He liked it that way, too.

Shrugging out of his robes, he stripped down to his skivvies in the drawing room and began to dress in the robes provided; they were tailored to fit his sleek form, right down to his sharp shoulders and lean legs. Just as he began fastening the button on his trousers, the floo flickered, and he nearly jumped out of his skin only to find Blaise brushing soot off of his shoulder.

"Zabini, this is my private floo."

"Yes, which is precisely why I used it. It looks better if I show up with the hosts' son compared to appearing in the foyer, late as ever."

"We're only late because you spent nearly an hour cursing out Flint for losing."

"He lost to a _half-blood_ , Malfoy."

"A half-blood that _survived_ a _killing curse._ Or did you forget somewhere in that tiny brain of yours?" Draco finished fixing his robes and tapped Blaise roughly on the forehead with the tip of his index finger. "Half-blood or not, Flint got careless. It's his own fault he lost today. I'm not saying Potter's not a twat, because he is, but Flint brought it on himself."

Blaise swatted his hand away and rolled his eyes. "Let's go greet the lucky parents. It's not every day we get to see a Marking first hand."

Together, they left the drawing room and strolled down the maze of hallways until they reached the doors to the ballroom, already flung open; the chatter of a crowd bounced off the walls, assaulting Draco's eardrums.

Just outside the doors, hidden against the wall, was a pacing Theo, muttering to himself as he practiced the same swishing motion with his wand over and over again. When he caught sight of his friends, he paused, sighing in relief. "Took you both long enough to get here."

"What are you doing out here?" Blaise asked. "The party's that way." He gestured toward the ballroom.

"I know," Theo said, shaking a sweaty hand with Draco in greeting. "But I just want to make sure I get this whole Marking ceremony right. I mean, what if I screw it up, gents? I could accidentily Mark my child as a half-blood - or _worse_."

Worse, they all knew, meant squib. It was a shame darker than any other family scandal - at least, that's how the three men were raised to believe.

"You have this, Theo," Draco assured him, clasping his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't get in your head about it. You'll do fine."

"Yeah...yeah, you're right, Draco. It's just - this is a really important moment in my child's life, you know? And she won't even remember it!" He laughed nervously. Someone cleared their throat behind them, and the men turned to meet the wide eyes of Astoria Greengrass.

"Theodore, my father is making his speech! You're missing it!" She didn't sound annoyed - more fearful that her father might find out. She tugged her new husband by the arm, shooting Blaise and Draco tiny smiles in greetance. "Hello, gentlemen."

"Hello, Astoria," they said in unison, pushing Theo while Astoria pulled until they got Theo into the ballroom, barely noticed. Astoria's mother stood in the back of the room, cradling her granddaughter and shooting Theo a scathing expression.

"Where have you been?" she hissed impatiently, quiet enough so that the crowd did not hear.

"Mother, don't start," Astoria warned, taking Eldra into her arms.

"You'll do fine," Draco said to Theo again, already wandering off toward the open bar to avoid the awkwardness of a family squabble. To his dismay, Blaise followed him. "If I wanted someone following me around all night, I would have brought a date."

"Don't be that way, mate. You know I don't like being in the middle of a confrontation."

They each ordered two firewhiskey neats and sipped idly as Astoria's father finished his speech and invited Theo and Astoria to join him on stage.

The ceremony was long, full of speeches and well wishes. Draco lost interest until the announcement that the spellwork would begin, and so he and Blaise pushed their way politely through the crowd to make it to the front row. Theo stood on the left side, and Astoria on the right. Then, they pushed the tips of their wands together and traced the same design in the air.

" _Stella polaris_ ," said Astoria.

" _Caerula_ ," whispered Theo.

As their wands pulled apart, a blazing, cobalt ball the size of a quill tip hovered between them, growing slowly in size. The pair carefully brought their wands lower and lower, until the tips of their wands met again, this time beneath Eldra's ear, just below her jawline. The blue orb absorbed into her skin, and it was done.

There, Eldra's new North Star Mark shone for all to see.

"Knew he wouldn't mess it up," Blaise muttered, elbowing Draco in the ribs. Draco took a sip from his tumbler and smirked. As applause rang out amongst the guests, he exchanged nods with Theo - a quiet recognition of pride. She was one of them now, branded for great things.

But what? Because as Draco looked around, he felt less like he had every opportunity and more like he was stuck with a lifetime prison sentence he could never appeal.

That night, after the party had died down and Blaise took Theo out to drink in celebration, Draco was left to his own devices. He fished the bottle of alcohol out of his nightstand, as planned, and changed into simpler attire. Draco didn't bother to pour himself a glass - he drank straight from the spout until his head swimmed and vision blurred.

He rubbed at his own Mark as he asked himself the same question he'd wondered for years now: if being pure blooded, rich, and admired meant true happiness, why wasn't he at all happy?

* * *

 **Thank you all so much for the love and support! Your thoughts would be most appreciated! I love hearing them, and they do inspire me to work hard on my writing.**  
 **~A.**


	3. Snake Charmer

**Hey, guys. Long time, no update. Sorry about that. I'm back, and so is this fic. Enjoy!**  
 **Thank you to LightofEvolution for encouraging me through this, and for adding some great ideas into this chapter!**  
 **~A.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Snake Charmer**

* * *

"He isn't coming."

"Hush, now. You don't know that."

"George, be reasonable. We can't offer him nearly the profit he'll make staying with The Company. Dueling is an investor's sport."

"The Company doesn't give a niffler's-arse about Harry as a person. He'll realize that. He'll _be here_."

It took everything within Hermione not to knock her friend's brother over the head with the book she held in her lap. It was a thick one - about finances - and she could easily smack him out cold with one good swing. However, she knew she didn't want to be the only one solely in charge of judging the acts pouring in for auditions, so she bit her tongue, gripped the book with enough strength to indent the leather, and tilted her head toward Ron.

"Is there any way to talk sense into your brother?"

"Mum's tried for years. If she can't do it, no one can. That woman's scary."

"What about Angelina?"

"Right! She's terrifying." Ron cringed. " _But_ she's his wife, and she 'believes in his dreams' and all that."

"Hmph." Hermione pouted, slamming the book shut. It was too difficult to concentrate at this point. "Well, if there's no talking him out of entertaining the notion _Harry Potter_ will show up for auditions, I officially declare your brother a lost cause."

"At least enjoy the show," said George without bothering to look back at her. Without missing a beat, he held up his clipboard, squinted his eyes, and called out, "Neville Long... _Long_ bottom?"

"P-Present!" A tall, gangly man leapt out of the stands, his hands wrapped around some sort of potted plan encased in a water-bubble charm. He hurried his way to the center of the ring, blinking at the lumos spell above him.

"Don't mind the lights," George encouraged, giving his wand a quick wave and dimming the spell slightly. "If you want to be in showbusiness, it'll come with the territory."

"Right…" Neville trailed off. His features were interesting to Hermione; he might have been handsome if he held himself with more confidence, though his ears were far too large for his face. His mop of cinnamon tresses dangled over his eyes as he sputtered out, "I...w-will you want to see my credentials, or…?" He reached for the collar of his robe.

"No, erm, _credentials_ needed here. Star or no star, everyone is equal on my stage. Never you mind your head about that." George pressed his hands together in solidarity.

Instantly, Neville became much more relaxed, exhaling a breath he'd been holding.

"Out of curiosity...you wouldn't happen to be related to the great Alice and Frank Longbottom?"

And just like that, Neville's face crumbled. So much for the light mood. "You know about my parents?"

"Doesn't everybody know about the extraordinary Aurors who gave their minds to the cause?" George's face grew gravely serious. Hermione, behind him, chewed the inside of her cheek, watching Neville like a thunderbird for any notion of apparating away. Instead, he straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat, and nodded once.

"I never really fit in anywhere. Most kids either made fun of my parents being in a 'loony bin', or made fun of my weight, or my love of plants. That's why...why I want to join what you've got going on. Prove I'm more than just...me."

"Never underestimate the power of _you_ ," said George, pointing both his pointers square at Neville. "Now, show me what you've got."

"In my hand?"

"Sure, we'll start there."

"It's...um...gillyweed." Neville reached his hand into the aqua sphere and broke off a bit of the slimy, gray-green leaves that resembled rat tails, presenting it to the audience.

Hermione had read about gillyweed, but it was rare and hard to come by in these parts. She wondered how he procured it (and if it was done legally).

"Gillyweed has a lot of medicinal properties, especially amongst the merfolk, providing better gill control and aeration of the lungs. But amongst us land dwellers, it can be both a blessing and a curse. If someone were to slip this in someone's food, for example, it could be the difference between life and death. But if one had some on him in a time of crisis - say, surrounded by water…" Neville shoved the whole bit of gillyweed in his mouth and chewed, smiling without missing a beat. Somewhere between chewing and swallowing, he'd found his wand. He took a deep breath, flicked the wood in his hand, and prepared himself as the sphere of water surrounding the plant began to swirl and reform around his head. Only a small bit of water was left to protect the plant; the rest surrounded his head from the neck up, his hair bobbing in the water like seaweed. He smiled as slits began to form along the sides of his neck, and he released the breath he'd been holding before taking a deeper one through the newly formed gills.

"See," he said, his voice distorted by the water but still understandable. "The way I see it, people need to know about the amazing things plants can do, as well as the dangers they possess."

"Interesting," George said, nodding slowly. "Yes...I can see it now. Imagine a giant tank behind you - and you, chained up in magic binding cuffs…Can you escape before the gillyweed runs out?" At the sight of Neville's wide and frightened eyes, he added, "Or we can have you swim with some kelpies and work on the hard stuff later."

Neville, to his credit, didn't fuss. He nodded and asked, "S-So...does that mean I'm in the show?"

George beamed. "Without a shadow of a doubt."

"Wicked!"

As Neville flounced off the stage, bubble charm still intact, Hermione turned her attention to Ron once more. "I like him. He seems nice."

"Yeah. Smart too." Ron didn't look at all impressed with his arms folded over his stomach.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing...it's just…" He took a deep pause, considering if he dared speak. With tinged cheeks, he whispered meekly, "We don't even have an act, you know? I mean, we've got an _idea_ , but that's not an _act_."

"That's the last one on the list…" said George, careening his head back to stare wondrously at the two of them. "Which can only mean one thing."

"Harry Potter isn't coming?" Hermione offered.

"That he's _late_. We'll give him five more minutes. He'll be here."

"That's what you said an hour and a half a-"

Someone cleared their throat from behind, and all three whipped their heads around to meet emerald eyes, raven tresses sticking up at odd angles, and a bashful smile. "Er...are auditions still open?"

"You're late," Hermione snapped crisply at him.

"Yeah…" Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry 'bout that. Dumbledore was working me pretty hard in training this morning _after_ …" He didn't have to say. They already knew. _The snake._

"Did you bring your _friend_ with you?" asked George.

Nodding, Harry reached down to the satchel resting on his hip, whispered something, and presented the viper from the duel. It wrapped itself leisurely around his wrist, curling up his arm until its head rested on his shoulder.

"Her name is Medusa. At least, she says she likes that name."

"Wonderful. And, er, is she up for auditioning as well?"

"They wanted me to kill her." Harry rubbed the tip of his finger to Medusa's head. "After the duel. Said she was just formed from magic, anyway. But I couldn't do it."

"When you say they…?" Hermione asked, leaning forward in interest.

"Not Dumbledore. The others. Zabini. Flint." The creases of his brow were prominent. "I smuggled her into my duffle, and we had a long talk about this show of yours. Needless to say, we came to an agreement, because we're here, but….we're taking a major risk, you know?"

"Indeed." George nodded. "But what is life without a little risk?"

Hermione glanced over at Ron, expecting him to make some scoff under his breath to George's statement, but instead she was met with his transfixed stare - not at her, but at the man in front of them. The tips of his ears were crimson, and so was the tip of his nose. "He came…" he whispered, eyes wide as saucers.

"Oh, allow me to introduce you to my associates," said George, gesturing to the two behind him. "This is Hermione - you might remember her from the other day…"

"Hard to forget someone who threatens to whack some sense into you," Harry replied, though he had a smirk on his face that said it was all in jest.

"And this-"

"I'm Ron!" Ron blurted out, standing up as rigid as a statue. He then realized his actions, for he cleared his throat and added, "Er, Ron Weasley."

"My little brother," George stood up, climbed over the benches, landed next to Ron, and proceeded to snag him in an arm lock before grinding his knuckles knuckles atop Ron's head.

"George! Cut it out!" Ron jerked out of his brother's grip and slugged George hard on the shoulder, but the elder Weasley barely flinched, enjoying his brother's demise too much to care.

The duelist smiled thoughtfully, almost extending out his snake arm before catching himself and offering the other while walking briskly over to them. "Well I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"Blimey," whispered Ron as he took Harry's hand. The moment he did, he shook it vigorously. "I've heard loads about you." He leaned in a little closer. "Do you really have the...the, um…"

"The what?" asked Harry.

" _Scar_."

"Oh." Harry laughed, releasing Ron's hand to pull back his bangs and present his lightning bolt scar he was famous for having.

"Wicked…" Ron gaped, mouth hanging open like a slack jawed buffoon. Hermione reached over and tapped his chin, reminding him to close it up.

"You'll catch lacewing flies that way," she told him.

"Alright," George clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder - the one that wasn't preoccupied with a dozing snake. "Enough of the chit-chat, yes? Why don't you show us what you've prepared?"

"Sure, alright." Harry nodded, shooting Ron one last, sheepish smile. If Hermione hadn't been so keenly observant, she might have missed it.

While Harry set up in the center of the ring, speaking parseltongue to convince his snake friend to wake up, Hermione sat back down next to Ron, whose hands were shaking.

"There's a gleam in your eye," she said to him, quiet enough for only him to hear. "Starstruck, maybe?"

"What?" Ron frowned, still not taking his eyes off Harry. " _No_...n-no...no, no, no." He sounded unconvincing. "I've never shaken a celebrity's hand before."

"Mhmm." Hermione had to at least give him that - squibs were looked so far down on, hardly anyone of magical blood would be caught within a yard's distance of them, let alone shake their hand. "But are you sure that's all of it?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I _mean_..." Hermione couldn't hide the grin from her face. It resonated all over her body, like a vibration. "You seem...smitten."

"Smitten?"

"Taken."

" _Taken_?"

"Notice how you're not denying it."

"I can barely comprehend what you're even blathering on about, 'Mione. Give me a break." Ron folded his hands between his legs, knees bobbing up and down in an anxious fit. "He seems...alright."

"Yes. I agree. And handsome, too."

"Mmhmm," Ron muttered absentmindedly before catching himself. "Er, if you're into blokes, I mean."

"Of course." Hermione knew not to push it. Ron would figure it out, all in due time. She glanced around the benches, wondering if Neville had already left (she really had a mind to discuss some herbs with him) but something - no, some _one_ else caught her eye. A silhouette stood in the entryway and only public entrance, careful enough not to be detected in the shadows. But as stated earlier, Hermione was keenly observant.

"I'll be right back," she told Ron, who stared wistfully at Harry as he begun to attempt his act. Hermione paid him no mind, moving to the edge of the theater and casting a silencing spell on her bare feet. She was slow in her approach, wondering just who was spying on the auditions. Could it have been Zabini, coming to try to taunt Harry? Or perhaps Dumbledore to convince him that this wasn't a fruitful endeavor? Maybe it was a fan? Or someone who despised him? Or maybe Neville? There was only one way to find out.

When she was only feet away, she withdrew her wand from her sleeve, where she kept it tucked, and cast a silent ' _lumos_ ' in the entryway. To her surprise, it wasn't Flint, or Dumbledore, or even Neville. But it was someone she recognized. It was the aristocratic, obnoxious man she had met yesterday from the balcony of Harry's employment. The one who smoked those awful cigars. He had his robe drawn around himself as to not be noticed, but she was sure of who he was. Who could forget that face?

Their eyes caught, and for a moment, Hermione forgot how to breathe. Here she was, standing eye-to-eye with this stranger, and yet his gaze seemed to penetrate her down to her core; she felt entirely vulnerable in that moment, as if he'd seen her naked.

"Can I help you?" he drawled, quirking one, definitive eyebrow her way.

 _Breathe_ , Hermione reminded herself, sucking in as much air as she could before replying hautly, "Pardon? But can _I_ help _you_? This is a closed audition."

"Really? Because the flyer says open to all."

"Open to all to _audition,_ not to gawk," she chastised, crossing her arms.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" He turned his eyes from her and proceeded to watch Harry perform.

"Well…" Hermione was taken aback at his response. "Isn't it?"

"I'm Draco," he said, ignoring her question. "Malfoy."

"Well, Mister Malfoy, I could care less who you are. I would still tell you that you have no right to be here, even if you were the Queen of England."

"Would you?" His eyes darted back over to her, and he stood straighter this time, his height prominent now. He was a good head taller than her, but she wouldn't let him make her feel small. She straightened her posture and puffed out her chest.

"Indeed, I would."

He smirked. "You know, that's not saying much. I couldn't give a rat's arsehole about the Queen."

Hermione's mouth fell open, much like Ron's earlier. "How _dare_ you say such a thing?"

"She isn't _my_ queen, is she?" Malfoy replied with a shrug. "Now why don't you and your bristly mane of...would you call that hair? - Well, whatever it is, why don't the two of you move along?"

"Not until you're out the door."

Malfoy chose to ignore her again, leaning against the entryway firmly, arms crossed, much like a stubborn child. His eyes trained on Harry and his snake. Hermione took the moment to observe this Draco Malfoy, attempting to get a read on him. To her dismay, she couldn't. He was as difficult to read as attempting to comprehend Shakespeare at the age of three. He was complex with layers of calloused defenses that made every expression on his face seem practiced.

The only thing she could sense from him, though she wanted desperately to deny it, was a sense of curiosity as he watched Harry perform.

"How long have you been skulking there?" she asked.

"A while," he replied matter-of-factly. "And maybe it was even worth my time."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, though she wasn't entirely sure what yet, when she heard George's voice echo off the walls. "Oi, Hermione! What d'you think? Wasn't that stupendous!?"

She whipped her body toward the sound of George; she'd nearly forgotten he was there at all.

"Great!" she lied, cupping her hands to carry her shout. She hadn't paid the least bit of attention to Harry at all. When she turned around to confront Malfoy again, she found the space vacant where he once stood. "Great…" she groaned, turning in a full circle to see if she could spot him, but he was gone, vanished into thin air.

Ron was clapping from the stands.

George encompassed Harry in a hug, careful to avoid Medusa.

Hermione leaned against the wall where Malfoy had been.

The wood was still warm.

* * *

 **Going to do more interactions of Dramione soon! I promise! Just have to establish everything, you know? A review would be greatly appreciated! Thank you.**


	4. The Other Side

**Sorry it took me a while to get this out. I hope it was worth the wait!**

* * *

 **Don't you wanna get away from the same old part you gotta play**  
 **'Cause I got what you need**  
 **So come with me and take the ride**  
 **It'll take you to the other side**  
 **'Cause you can do like you do**  
 **Or you can do like me**  
 **Stay in the cage, or you'll finally take the key**  
 **Oh, damn! Suddenly you're free to fly**  
 **It'll take you to the other side**

 **"The Other Side" from The Greatest Showman**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: The Other Side**

* * *

A month passed, but Draco still wasn't sure what came over him that fateful afternoon when he stealthily snuck his way inside the old museum to watch the oddities. They were described by many, including Blaise, as 'freaks'. But every time the word tried to worm its way to _his_ lips, Draco found himself absentmindedly rubbing the Mark along his neck, wondering what the difference really was in any of them. Not that he would admit it outloud, but he felt more of an outcast amongst his Marked brethren than he ever felt in some musty tavern surrounded by strangers who never gave a mandrake's arse if he was pureblooded or not.

But fate always held out for cruel irony, and once again he found himself alone in a sea of strangers, walking his way up the flight of stairs that would lead him to the balcony landing overlooking tonight's duelling tournament. Blaise, of course, was at his side, accompanied by an attractive Armenian witch Draco didn't recognize. He, himself, arrived stag. What was the point in pretending there was someone there for him when there wasn't? The last thing he needed was a dodgy tabloid written about him.

As the three took their seats in a private box, Blaise snapped his fingers in front of Draco's face, following his gaze to the spectacle that had caught his friend's attention.

 _Of course they would be here_ , Draco thought begrudgingly. In the commoner stands, George Weasley stood with his ridiculous top hat, ushering in his band of -

"Freaks," mumbled Blaise, snorting as he brought forth a flask of something that burned Draco's nostrils from the smell alone. "How the Hell did they even afford tickets to something like this?"

The witch at his side made a snide comment, but Draco couldn't be bothered with acknowledging her presence, so he spoke to Blaise and Blaise alone. "According to the Daily, their show is actually quite successful, despite the nightly protests outside their establishment. A show is a show - if it's entertainment, the people will flock."

"Right," Blaise mumbled. "Back in my father's day, the freaks wouldn't even be allowed in an establishment such as this. Maybe we're being too lenient these days-"

But Draco wasn't listening - his eyes trailed over the various faces and forms until he found the witch with the frizzy hair. She sat at the end of the row, reading a thick book and occasionally lingering her eyes up to the stage, which was still barren. Draco smirked as he thought back to their second meeting by happenstance one month ago; she was so spunky. Most women were so prim and proper in his social circle - no one dared to defy traditional, cordial manners. But unlike those women, she'd managed to look him in the eyes without hesitation. Why would someone so interesting feel the need to join Weasley's group of misfits? She appeared educated, unapologetic, and formidable. Really, she was all things Draco admired: someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind.

His attention was partially interrupted when Lee Jordan approached the stage to announce they would be beginning the main event in two minutes.

"Well," muttered Blaise, folding his arms over his chest like a pouting toddler, "at least you can say the freaks have nothing on you as far as showmanship. These events you sponsor pull in twice the crowd for triple the profit."

"And that's what counts," Draco replied, bitterly sarcastic, but Blaise didn't pick up on this fact and nodded in agreement.

"Right you are, Draco."

With a roll of his eyes, Draco set his sights back on the object of his infatuation, now holding her place in the book with her finger so she could talk to the redhead beside her. He was gangly and pale, but not the good kind of pale like Draco. Draco was as porcelain - that buffoon looked as if he might upchuck slugs at any moment. And yet, he could make her smile in ways that Draco could only imagine. The way she giggled into her curls with full bodied grins…

The lights began to dim, and Draco managed to pry his eyes away to focus on center stage. With grandeur, sparks flew at both ends, and in a large puff of smoke, the two duelists appeared. Flint wore his traditional colors, black and silver, while Potter adorned green and red, looking more like a Christmas present and less like someone who was about to sling spells.

"Potter looks proper nervous." Blaise smirked, wiggling in his chair gleefully.

Upon further inspection, Draco deduced that it wasn't nervousness shrouding Potter's features - it was something formidable and intangible; determination. The crease in his brow, the dark flicker in his eyes - it all spelled out a confidence Draco hadn't seen last month.

"Duelists, are you ready?" asked Lee between them. His voice echoed off the walls with confidence - a proper announcer if every was one.

Potter nodded once. Flint waved his hand in the air dismissively. With flare, Lee leapt off the stage, right in front of the first row, and said to the duelists, while never looking directly at them, "The rules are simple. First one down and unconscious - or worse - is declared the loser. Winner takes home a hefty sum of galleons and bragging rights. No unforgivables. No physical touch. This is not a fight to the death, however…" Lee paused for dramatic effect, "should you find yourself in an untimely demise, a second may take over to duel in your place. We have these ready in the back, ladies and gents, so not to worry!"

The crowd broke out into hushed whispers, but they always did. It was part of the allure.

"Oh, and best not to forget our main sponsor for this evening." Lee rubbed his hands together. "Let's give a warm round of applause to the Malfoy family for their generous contributions."

Thankfully, the spotlight did not drop on Draco's private box, so he was able to feed off of the applause without that strange, nagging guilt that came when one lost inconspicuousness. His friends - Hell, his family - would disown him if they knew how he felt about fame. To them, it was a drug, but Draco had run dry long ago. He feared if they knew about his soberness to it all, they would institutionalize him for such thoughts.

"Alright. I want a clean fight," said Lee, turning back toward the duelists. "But not a clean stage. Get messy or go home." He clapped his hands, and the lights doused, turning the entire theater black as midnight. Another clap, and the stage alone lit to life, seemingly out of nowhere (magic was involved of course). The men paced to the middle of the stage, raised their wands, pivoted, and made their way back to their respected ends.

 _DING_ went a bell, and Flint immediately spun around, reeling a stinging curse at Potter, who quickly deflected it without even turning around. The audience ooh'd and ahh'd.

"Bugger," Blaise grumbled, leaning forward in his chair. "He shot too soon out of the gate."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Draco chided, clapping his friend on the back and earning an indigent snort from his friend in response.

"I tell you _one story_ , and it follows me around the rest of my life."

"To the grave."

The deflection spells were strong on stage, and it began to look as if nothing might come of the duel when suddenly, Flint shot a slicing spell at Potter and got him right in the side. Blood began to soak around his ribcage, and Potter's deflection spell dispelled as he clutched his ribs.

"Got you," said Flint, loud enough that the audience could hear. He raised his wand and sent a bombarding hex Potter's way - it struck him in the face, knocking him over.

"Let me go," someone in the audience below could be heard shouting, "Ron, I said let me _go_."

Draco glanced over the side of the balcony and spotted her in the residual light of the stage; it was definitely _her_. She wore a look of disgust as she trudged off toward the back exit.

Before he realized what he was doing, Draco stood as well.

"Mate?" asked Blaise, glancing at his friend.

"Nature calls," Draco smirked, excusing himself. It was either lying to his friend or explaining why he was letting his feet guide him down the staircase to follow a witch he barely knew.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he spotted her at the concession counter, tears streaming down her cheeks as she bought herself a butterbeer. Just as he was about to take that last step off the staircase, reality set in. Just what the Hell was he doing? His fingers gripped the banister. The last time they'd spoken, she hadn't been at all pleased to see him. Just what did he think would happen this time?

He eyed the butterbeer in her hand and thought about it. He was entitled to refreshments as well, wasn't he? And would he really stop himself from a drink if it were any other witch? Surely not. And with that, he pushed himself off of the last stair and approached the counter.

"Two butterbeers," he said, trying his best to completely ignore her as she passed him and took a seat at one of the two small tables nearest the door. When he paid and acquired his refreshments, he turned casually, feigning surprise as their eyes connected across the room.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me," he chided, a smirk crawling up his lips as he approached her.

She assessed him for a moment before replying, "Mister Malfoy, I would like to think that, if I were stalking you, I wouldn't wait a month between _convenient run-ins._ "

A smart witch. Slipping into the chair across from her, he replied, "And yet, you remembered my name."

She was quiet at that, sipping her mug and glancing out the window beside them.

"Something on your mind?" he inquired genuinely.

"It seems it would be very hard to forget your name, as it is all over the playbill." Her voice was even, not giving a shred of her intentions. "So, you're an investor of these events?"

"Production manager is the official title," he nodded. "Off paper, a sponsor."

Her eyebrows pinched together as she looked at him fully for the first time this evening. "These duels...they're barbaric."

He thought she might feel this way, considering the dried tear stains on her cheeks. "You think so?" he asked quietly.

"I know so," she stated, boring her eyes into his. "Years ago, duels were a means of survival, Mister Malfoy. Now we watch them as a sport. Did you see that gross display of cruelty back there? That spell could have punctured one of Harry's lungs, or worse! If he'd been attacked like that on the street, Flint would have been thrown in Azkaban in a heartbeat."

"And without duels," he challenged, "wizards like Marcus Flint would take out their carnal desires on those with no means to defend themselves. We get a lot of talented duelists, but a majority of them are twisted and gnarled from the inside. If we didn't offer this outlet, how many innocent lives do you think they'd take on their own time?" His tone was crisp, full of conviction. It was something he was entirely passionate about, and he wasn't about to let someone, even her, tear down his manner of thinking. "It's not like there are a lot of opportunities for purebloods, half-bloods, and muggleborns to stand on equal footing."

That grabbed her attention. She sized him up and found him wanting. "And do you think muggleborns are afforded the same educational opportunities as purebloods, or even half-bloods for that reason?"

It was a question he wasn't prepared to answer. "Does it look like I made the educational system?" he snapped. "No one ever said life was fair. We live in a world that's cruel and unforgiving. Those are facts. And now you want to crucify people like me who try to help give equal opportunities?"

"So you're saying those who are less educated in spell casting should be allowed to participate in such events?" she shot back. "If Harry wasn't trained by the great Albus Dumbledore, would he really even stand a chance against a brute like Flint? It sounds like purebloods just itching to show off their advantages and rub our noses in it."

Draco paused. "...Our?" He'd never considered...he'd just assumed...

Her eyes widened, and then an amused smile stitched across her pretty lips. "Oh, well this explains _so_ much." She pushed her butterbeer to the center of the table and reached for her hair, pulling it back. Her skin was smooth, supple, and without a trace of a Mark beneath those curly tresses. Seemingly satisfied at his bewildered expression, she stood and said, "You see, Mister Malfoy, you've obviously wasted your time this evening. After all, what would _I_ have to offer to someone like you?" She snatched up her mug, downed the rest of her butterbeer, and slammed it on the table, smirking sourly at him. "At least with George, we're not all nearly killing each other to stand on equal footing."

And with that, she left him, sauntering off back to the auditorium.

* * *

As Draco climbed the stairs with two untouched butterbeers, his mind swam in a sea of numbness. All hope of enjoying conversation with a fascinating witch had been snuffed out the moment she'd presented her neck to him. For nearly a month, he'd entertained the idea of running into her again just to see the fiery look in her eyes. He'd never dreamt such a fascinating woman could be a _mudblood_.

Even as he thought the word, his stomach knotted. It was his father's word, roosted deep within his early childhood. A word he'd once believed in but had since tried to rub out on many occasions. He never could get the smudge of it completely off his soul.

It was as if everything he'd been taught about their kind had been flipped on its head. They were supposed to be classless, unintelligent...yokels. Not... _her_.

"Took a piss so you could get pissed?" Blaise chuckled as Draco returned to their balcony box. Draco handed Blaise and his date the butterbeers and took his seat once again, this time folding his arms over his lap and staring blankly at the arena below, refusing to even acknowledge Blaise's comment.

He made every attempt to ignore her, but his eyes would trail back to the brunette below as she allowed the redhead beside her to wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders. For once, something in Draco Malfoy's life seemed unattainable. And even though a chill spread throughout his body, so did a thrill. Because, even though it was short lived, that moment tonight, sitting across from her, had brought color to his dull, narrow-minded world.

* * *

"That was brilliant!" shouted Ron, grabbing George by the scruff of his robes and shaking him. "Wasn't it? I mean, did you see the way Flint flew across that stage? And Harry - Harry was so…"

"We get it, Ron," said Hermione at his side, helping George to peel his brother off of him. "Harry was an exceptional duelist."

"Yeah, and you were worried," chided Ron with a lopsided smile. "Nothing to worry about. Harry came out victorious, just like I knew he would!"

George laughed, rolling his eyes at the banter between the two, while his eyes became momentarily distracted by a flash of white-blond hair across the room. He glanced down at his playbill, noting the name 'Malfoy'. Well, it certainly sounded like the bloke Hermione mentioned a month back spying on them. He let his eyes trail around the front, to the wizards and witches packed like sardines, rubbing shoulders despite having a Mark or none at all.

Perhaps….perhaps he could use someone with knowledge of filling seats not only with the common folk, but the aristocrats as well.

* * *

Draco bundled himself in his scarf, relieved to be out of the mass of people still ordering concessions for the road and discussing the surprising win of Harry Potter. The wind picked up, biting at Draco's nose and reminding him that there was a bottle of scotch waiting to put him into a stupor. Just as he was about to Disapparate, a hand briefly touched his shoulder, gaining his attention.

He turned.

"Mister Malfoy, a word?"

George Weasley stood before him, mild amusement across his face. Of course, it would be him.

"Weasley," said Draco. "To what do I owe the... _pleasure_?" He squeezed the word out like it was the last drop of orange juice from the pulp.

"Ah, I seem to have made an impression, have I?" George smiled whimsically, offering out a hand. "Tell me, have you been? To the show?"

Draco snorted a laugh. "Merlin, no! - But I've seen the crowds." Despite what others might think of him, he took George's hand and shook it. After all, they were both still purebloods, yes? And purebloods needed to bestow manners to other purebloods, as custom called for. As he did, he spotted Hermione just inside the doors to the theater, hugging Potter. Quietly, Draco added, "Some would even dare to say your show brings about more entertainment than mine, and at less of a...cost."

It was difficult not to notice the gash above Potter's right as it dripped blood down his cheek.

"And yet, you have no difficulties selling tickets," George mused.

"People enjoy what they enjoy," Draco replied, bringing his thoughts back around to the man in front of him. "It isn't my place to judge them for it." He noticed the way George hadn't let go of his hand. "Might I have my hand back now?"

"Right." George released him, grinning. "You look parched, Malfoy. Something tells me you could use a drink."

* * *

They sat at a bar top in Diagon Alley, a shot of firewhiskey in their hands. Draco was on his third one, and he could already feel the effects of the alcohol taking wing, though not as quickly as he would have liked. He supposed this was better than drinking alone at home - at least here, he knew his tab would be taken care of, and he could pretend, if only for a moment, to let his guards down.

"Let me be straight with you," said George, turning his empty shot glass over and setting it on the table with a _plink_. "I didn't just invite you here for drinks."

Draco pretended to gasp. "You don't say? Tell me, was it to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"Can't say you're my type."

George nodded, laughing. "Same goes for you. Also, my wife doesn't like to share." After a sobering pause, he said, "I want to appeal not only to the common folk. I want the purebloods."

"Merlin only knows why," pondered Draco, turning his shot glass over and clinking it against George's. "They're all a bunch of narcissistic, judgemental asshats - myself included." He tapped the counter for another round.

"Yes, well...it's not as easy being a pureblood if you're going against the status quo," said George, pensive. As the bartender brought them another round, he cradled the shot glass fondly. "My brother is a squib. My family has no qualms about associating with muggleborns. And really, I say bugger it to anyone who thinks otherwise."

"So why the change of heart, hmm?" Draco gave an empty smirk. "Why care at all what the other purebloods think?"

"It's not a change of heart. If anyone is going to have a change, it's them."

"Oh yeah?" Draco snorted. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"You."

All of the blood in Draco's body turned cold, and he grew gravely serious. "I'm afraid you have the wrong sort of chap for this...endeavor."

George kicked back his shot. He winced as it burned down his throat, but as he spoke, his voice was clear as day. "So, I suppose the way you were looking at Miss Granger this evening was in disdain? Forgive me. I thought, perhaps, it was infatuation."

Quickly, the hairs on Draco's neck stood as he was backed into a corner. "You're mistaken. And you forget yourself...and your place."

"As, apparently, do you when a pretty face is involved."

They summed each other up, and Draco released a slow chuckle. "I know five different wizards who could make your death look like your wand backfired on you."

"But you won't. Because you know I'm right." George tapped the bartop and ordered yet another round. "Right here. Right now. This is my offer. I'm not going to chase you, or beg you."

"And yet you'd bribe me."

"I know you see the potential here." George put an arm around Draco, to which Draco shrugged off immediately and slid his chair away from the offending redhead. George tried again. "You act like you enjoy this drudgery life you live in, but we both know you're looking for a way to escape. Break out of the cage."

"I happen to like the cage," Draco snapped. "In fact, it's not a cage at all."

"I used to be like you."

Draco turned his head and sized up the redhead. "You've never been like me."

George rolled his eyes. "Let me guess...your world is a bland, colorless existence of protocol and ignorance. You act a certain way because it's expected of you, and to step out of line would be social suicide. One of which you've contemplated many a night while hugging a bottle of...firewhiskey? No, _scotch_."

Damn, Draco thought. That was proper accurate.

"I'm offering you a way out of that. To...live in color, so to speak."

"That's insane. Flat lunacy."

"If it's crazy," shrugged George, "live a little crazy."

It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "You think it would be easy to just...walk away from the conventional?"

"Nothing risky is easy, but nothing worthwhile comes without risk." As the bartender brought them a new round of shots, George immediately partook. He read Draco's face like a book as he said, "There's some Irish heritage in my lineage. Alcohol is like table water."

"Germanic," Draco said, tilting his shot glass toward the other man. "A toast to the ancestors we never knew, but who gave us the genes to stomach dark ales and strong liquor." They clinked glasses together, even though George's was empty.

As Draco threw his shot back, George asked, "So, my offer?"

"Fat chance."

"Oh, come _on_ , Malfoy. Don't you wanna get away? You must be murderously bored playing the same old part every day."

"Yes, well this part gets me all the luxuries I need in life."

"A songbird in a cage."

"What is with you and these _damn_ cage metaphors?"

"All I'm saying is," George said, more conviction in his tone, "that you can do like you do, or you can do like me. I'm offering you a key - all you have to do is take it, songbird. You'd be surprised how thrilling it is to fly without your wings clipped."

Draco paused, allowing George's words to sink in. He wasn't sure why he did it - maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the enticing idea of just letting go for half a second. But he shook his head, emptied the silly notions out of his brain, and grabbed up his scarf from the bar top.

"I hate to break it to you, but it just won't happen. So thanks - but no. I quite enjoy this cage. At least with it, I'm fed three square meals a day. What you're asking is for me to throw myself into poverty for - what? This silly notion of being free? Free from what? You're asking me to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire." He wrapped his scarf around his neck and stood, wobbling slightly. "Don't get me wrong. I... _admire_ your passion. But between sweeping up phoenix droppings or living amongst the swells...I'll let you take a guess as to what I'll pick."

It was the right thing to say - it's what his father would have said. And yet, as he said the words, he felt his soul being smudged out a little more, replaced with mechanical gears and empty surface values.

George stood from the bar top as well, meandering over to a vacant piano in the corner. Draco didn't know why he stayed - perhaps it was the intrigue of hearing someone tickle the ivories. Or maybe it was because, despite all of his protest, he didn't want George to give up on him. Not just yet.

As George drummed along a melancholy tune amongst the keys with his fingertips, he asked, loud enough for Draco to hear, "This really the life you want, Malfoy? Scotch, duels, and misery?"

"If I threw in the towel with you, I'd be the laughingstock of wizarding London."

""But you could finally live a little. Maybe even, dare I say, laugh? Just let me give you the freedom to wake up and tear those walls down. Maybe impress a certain someone we both know?" He played a solemn chord and smiled knowingly. "But...I guess I leave that up to you."

It was the nail Draco needed in his proverbial coffin seal his fate. Even if it was possibly the stupidest idea he'd planned to make in his entire life. He paused, for dramatic effect, but his mind was set.

"Alright, Weasley. Let's talk shop." He crossed his arms. "How much of the percentage would I be taking?"

George's eyes lit up. "Figures you'd want a slice of the pie. I'd give you...oh...seven?"

"Seven percent?" Draco scoffed. "I wasn't born this morning. I'll take eighteen."

"Eighteen?!" George exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the keys and making an awful sound. "Why not just ask for knuts on the sickles?"

""Fifteen."

"I'd be willing to go for eight."

"Twelve."

"Maybe nine…"

They smirked at one another and said, at the same time, "Ten." And they shook on it.

"Mister Weasley, it looks like you have yourself a partner."

After a hiccup, George shook his head and corrected, "What I have is a glorified, overcompensated apprentice." He patted around his breast pocket. "Damn, I must have forgotten my wallet…"

With a roll of his eyes, Draco reached into his pocket, slammed some galleons on the table, and smirked bitterly.

"You're a good man, Malfoy." George said as he stood from the piano and patted him on the back. "See you...oh, let's say first thing on Thursday?"

* * *

 **Let me know what you thought!**  
 **~A.**


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